“I thought I was nothing to you.”
On tiptoes, she pressed her mouth to his lips. Then, lowering slowly, releasing his coat, she murmured, “Does that seem like nothing, Felton Northwood?”
This was the second time. The second time she’d kissed him. He tightened his fist to keep from dragging a hand across his mouth and wiping it away when he should have been wanting to keep it forever.
“We had better go back inside.” He took her elbow, and they started back beneath the grape arbors and through the garden paths.
He was just tired tonight. That was all.
By tomorrow, he would be interested in her secrets and eager for her kisses and invigorated by her apricot-smelling hair.
But tonight, the only scent he wanted to breathe was rose water.
Eliza jerked awake.Captain?She groped for the cottage wall, rough and stone and cool, but her hands met a different wall. An unfamiliar one.
Because Captain was dead.
He wasn’t here to run a wet cloth over her sweaty brow, or rescue her from the claws, or tell her everything would be over by morning.
Breathing fast, she climbed out of bed and paced the chamber. Anything to awaken herself. Anything to rid herself of the beast, if only for tonight.
Someone tapped on the door, startling her.
She grabbed the ruffled wrapper Miss Haverfield had given her and slipped it on as the tap came again.
“Eliza?”
“Felton?”
“Open up.”
Anchoring her disheveled hair behind her ears, she crept to the door and cracked it open. “Is something wrong?”
Fully dressed, he leaned forward with a dim-glowing candlestick. “You called out.”
Had she? Shame pulsated through her, making her want to slam the door and crawl back into bed where he couldn’t see or pity her.
He pushed the door open wider. “Come downstairs and I shall get you a glass of water.”
“No, you needn’t bother—”
He grabbed her hand and tugged her into the hall anyway.
Only then did she see the rumpled counterpane outside her door. And the pistol. “You slept here?”
He didn’t answer. No, of course he wouldn’t. Brave men never owned to their bravery, not in all the books and stories.
But this was no book. He should never have slept outside her door. He had no reason to watch after her this way, to sacrifice his comfort, to protect her as if she…as if she meant something to him.
Downstairs, he pulled her into a dark kitchen and poured a glass from a brass pitcher. He nodded to a chair at a scratched, wooden table. “Sit.”
Then, side by side, they were seated next to each other. The orange candlelight danced between them, and the beeswax filled the kitchen with the faint, earthy scent of honey.
She circled the water glass with her hands. “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“Tonight. For last night. For the night before that.” She shook her head. “You should not have brought me here. You should not have to sleep outside my door—”
